


Loving You Is Like a Resurrection

by OpaqueXApathy



Category: Fury (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, I swear this story isn't as bad as my tags, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, World War II, brief mentions of canonical characters, graphic depiction of injury, mentions of an established relationship, napalm(should be a warning)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpaqueXApathy/pseuds/OpaqueXApathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scars are a surface reminder of the scars on our souls. When Don walked through the metaphorical (and not so metaphorical) fires of hell to get the worst of his, a certain man by the name of Bible never left his side. Call it irony or call it fate but Don knows he wouldn't have survived it without him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Veterans Day. Not even joking. While this one wasn't intentionally set up for today - I figured it was a respectful way to show my gratitude for the people who fought and died for our rights to even post fan fiction and the freedom of speech that let's us do so. Many suffered grievous injuries like the one about to be depicted, one which I couldn't help but explore the second I saw it in the movie. I also knew immediately that it was from the dreaded and unspeakable horror of napalm (the scars are horribly unique and specific). There ARE mentions of an established relationship here but most of it is focused on Don's injuries. This will be 3 parts. Also I would like to give a BIG shout out to the wonderful commenters on these stories. You really inspire me and cement my passion as a writer. Seriously, thank you.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr: http://fking-gold-trans-am.tumblr.com/

 

 

Don took a deep breath and looked out over the expanse of woods, burned fields, wrecked houses and ruined countryside. The houses were still smoking and bodies were hanging from trees. Nothing that Don hadn’t seen before but it was getting worse. The Nazis were getting desperate. They had no respect for their own people, no decency for the value of human life.

Sometimes Don felt like a monster. And then he had a reminder like this that showed him what real monsters look like. It changed the meaning of darkness forever.

“Looks like they’ve been and gone.” Boyd said, tossing his cigarette to the floor or what was left of it. He’d been chewing on the unlit stub for most of the day just to get a taste of the tobacco. They were low on supplies and even Don didn’t have extra packs which he frequently used to trade locals for services or specialty supplies they couldn’t get elsewhere. Or he would have given him something.

He didn’t like to play favorites among his crew. But he did occasionally reward good behavior and Boyd never undermined him, didn’t disobey his commands - although he would respectfully voice his opinion, loudly if necessary against an order he may not agree with. It was rare but it was his job as his second in command.

No Don didn’t like to play favorites. It wasn’t good for a crew, it caused harbored feelings of bitterness and resentment towards a commander and didn’t promote good behavior. But Boyd’s good behavior, practically flawless, was what kept Don from being concerned that his relationship with the man might incline him towards favoritism. Even if that wasn’t in his nature in the circumstances of war.

“Yeah.” Don agreed with his gunner’s observations. But while the Nazis looked long gone something was nagging at him. His gut was telling him different even though all evidence was saying otherwise. This town looked the same as any other they’d occupied lately. Desolate, destroyed, broken. But something just felt off and he didn’t like it at all. Something wasn’t sitting well.

“Bring us around, Gordo. Just past the clearing over there.” Don said, scanning their surroundings from within the turret. To his annoyance, the other tank crews had already left their tanks and everyone was mostly relaxed, going through the town and probably making plans to rest here for now before moving on in the morning. Don knew it was probably nothing. He knew his own crew desperately needed to rest but the persistent feeling in his gut was telling him that it wasn’t safe to do that. Not just yet.

The war lately hadn’t been letting them do any resting of any sort. But they hadn’t enlisted to relax. No one had been drafted in this tank.

The Sherman tank crew in question was tense now. It had been a long and rough past couple of days and Don didn’t want to prolong it any minute more than he had too. And so he decided to let it go. Telling the tank driver to settle them within the hollowed out remains of a shell bombed building, the Fury coming to rest finally after being tread deep in bodies for the past week. But once the tank was finally settled, Don looked down to find deep brown, intense eyes looking straight back at him. And it looked like they’d been there for a few long moments before he’d noticed.

Don met Boyd’s gaze levelly. The intuitive man had eyes that could see right through ones soul. At least that’s how it felt when Don met them head on. Boyd certainly missed nothing. Especially not the thoughts of his commander apparently.

Don shifted where he sat in the turret. “Just seems a little too quiet is all. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“We’ve gotten through a whole war on your instincts so far.” Boyd said and what he was saying seemed to run true of the whole crew inside Fury. Neither Gordo, Grady, or Red were moving from their positions. Unlike the rest of the regiment they were with, whom they could already hear letting loose in the streets outside. Don felt both satisfied and touched by their unwavering faith and trust in him. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t fight to be worthy of every ounce of both.

“Not sure I want to start betting my life against them now.” the gunner continued.

“Mmhm.” Red agreed immediately and an ‘amen’ came from Grady.

Don took in a breath and tried to put what he was feeling into words. But that was just it. He didn’t know what it was. “I don’t know.” Don said to the waiting gazes of his tank crew and again, he shifted where he sat. “I really don’t. Something just isn’t sitting right with me.”

The end of his sentence was punctuated by screams.

Don recognized the type immediately, breath catching as he stood quickly to see out of the limited viewing ports of the turret. And when that didn’t afford him a good enough view, he reached up and opened the hatch. What he saw both confirmed his suspicions and definitely fortified his previous gut instinct. And oh how he wished he’d been wrong.

By now he could say confidently that all of them could differentiate types of screams. Don definitely could and he would never forget or stop hearing this one in his nightmares for days to come, this particular scream. The scream of agony personified, hell harnessed.

Napalm. The worst way a man could die, the worst pain he could ever experience.

The kid on fire now from head to foot didn’t do what a more experienced man might have and shoot himself. He was too panicked, too young, and couldn’t think past his own endless suffering. Don was sure napalm was what the fires of hell felt like and there wasn’t a place it didn’t touch. He was told by a survivor that it felt like every single inch had been flayed alive and soaked in salt.

Within a space of a second from the sound of the screams to finding the source, less, Don was giving orders in rapid fire succession. “Gordo fire it up! Red get on that turret gun! Everybody lock it up tight!”

The tank engine roared to life, Don counted the seconds by the hammering of his heart, smoke from the exhaust permeating the air. Boyd was already in his position by the main turret gun - soldiers were shouting and the whole army regiment was up in a state of arms. Don could see the source, yelling at Gordo where to go, ducking down briefly as bullets ricocheted off Fury’s metal hide and missed him by mere inches. Some Nazi soldiers had apparently been laying in wait, he didn’t know how many, choosing the moment when they were relaxed to strike. And they’d struck a tank on the far edge of town near the tree line with napalm. It was already up in flames and the screaming had already stopped. Now the shooting and gunfire had began.

“Gordo move your ass!” Don shouted, ignoring the shouted string of Spanish he got in return. There was less gunfire now for him to decide risking getting partially out of the tank, taking up position at the main automatic and pressing hard down on the trigger, aiming for the Nazi bastard with the napalm. He was doing more damage than an entire squad at this point.

The M4 Sherman was picking up speed but it wasn’t nearly enough. The Nazi wielding the flamethrower had turned his attention to another tank, who was scrambling to even get it started. It looked like mechanical issues, a panicked driver, too cold of a start or a flooded transmission, Don couldn’t guess which. But they were dead in the water and two crew members tried to make a run for it. One got inside the tank but another young kid wasn’t going to even get close. Don didn’t even hesitate, jumping off the still relatively slow moving Fury against Boyd’s shouting protestations.

“Hey, hey!” he yelled. “Don where the hell are you going!”

Don ignored him. The rest of the Nazis were down and out and his crew didn’t need any firing directions. He wasn’t going to listen to the screams of any more kids today.

He recognized him as First Class Private Riley Winters. A kid he actually liked, a promising young man who’d completed tank school at the top of his class. He liked his laugh, he liked his smile, and there were too few genuinely good people left. No more people were dying at this moment and certainly not in the worst way one could currently die in this godforsaken war. It was like the Nazis had been unleashed from hell itself. The gates had opened, the hounds were loose, and they were all trying to drive back the wolves.

Don had had it. He’d had it with the dying, he’d had it with the screaming, and he’d had it with the killing.

Don grabbed Winters by the jacket and pulled him towards the Fury, which was rapidly approaching on his left, with the intentions of throwing him behind it’s armored, protective shell. He succeeded but with his back turned and his body blocking Winters it was he who got a brushing glance of the napalm aimed for Winters and his tank crew instead.

He’d later be told, much later, that it was Red who’d cut down the Nazi and that killing him had knocked the bastard back and taken his hand off the trigger. Otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten a glance with it. He would have gotten the whole damn end of the spray and then some. And there was no way he would have survived that.

He would be told much later that his actions had not only saved Winters but his entire tank crew and Fury’s. He’d later, months later, be given a purple heart. And scars to last a lifetime. It was a wonder, he’d be told, that he even lived at all.

Don firmly believed, after being told what happened six months after that very moment, that it was Boyd’s quick thinking that saved his life. Because even a glancing touch was enough. The napalm could have easily spread, which it frequently did. And most men wisely killed themselves before it could. But Don hadn’t. He didn’t even reach for his firearm as the worst pain he’d ever experienced in his life erupted along his back, shoulders, and lower half.

Because he thought of his men.

He thought of his promise to keep them alive, because he was a commander of a tank crew that needed him. Because he had much more, in his position of leadership, to think of than himself. Even like this.

Killing himself was not an option.

He hit the ground refusing to scream and didn’t entirely succeeded. The sound wrenched from him against his own free will wasn’t even something he recognized at first as his own voice. And then he realized it was _him_ screaming and bit down so violently on the sounds that the coppery tang of blood was sharp and sudden in his mouth. He tried to crawl, not to get back into Fury, he wouldn’t risk harming the tank or spreading the fire to his crew. He didn’t even know what _to_ do. He just knew he couldn’t quit. Not while he was breathing.

There was so much shouting and so much pain that he could barely think straight. “Someone put this fucking fire out!” he roared, finding his voice, and venting all his agony through it.

And then the world went dark and a heavy weight was suddenly on his back. He didn’t know what it was but it felt like a body and now he could mostly hear Bible yelling himself hoarse. Practically screaming, something he thought might be orders. He focused on the voices, willed himself not to black out. But the smells of burning flesh, the unimaginable pain, was making it all but impossible.

The weight was gone for a moment and then he felt something being dumped on him. Something heavy. Like sand.

He could taste smoke in his mouth, nose, and his eyes were watering. He realized with a start he was crying. He couldn’t breathe and he was still making uncontrollable sounds of pain through clenched teeth. But he was finding the will to do something again, his only thoughts his men and Fury. He wouldn’t admit it out loud but the top of his list was Boyd. The only man, the only person, he’d ever let himself truly and deeply love. It was one thing to lose his crew or a man of that crew. But to lose Bible would be his entire undoing. The ultimate failure. Something he’d never come back from.

A hand found his and he grasped onto it without thought. The other was clenched so tightly in dirt that he didn’t think he’d ever be able to let go. And something was being poured on him and _finally_ the heat stopped. Or at least some of it.

“-Don talk to me! Please! Can you hear me?”

Boyd. It was him. Yelling at him. Reflexively, so hard it hurt his hand, he tightened his grip on the hand holding his. So hard that even through his gloves he could feel the outline of his bones.

“Yes!” he shouted back through the pain, shaking with it, eyes tearing up faster than he could blink to see. Bible. His men. His crew. Fury. He must have gotten some of his thoughts out because the noise Boyd made was nothing short of strangled, affectionate, and disbelieving.

“We’re fine. Because of you. Crazy son of a bitch.” Bible sounded like he was crying and oh that wasn’t good Don thought, groaning, and he’d really wanted the noise to be inward but he knew it wasn’t. He was a broken, absolute mess. Probably in worst shape than he could come back from. But he’d made the choice not to end his life because of his men. He’d chosen unimaginable pain. And he didn’t regret it. But now he had to face it. And the firm possibility of a slow, unimaginable death as a result. He’d seen it first hand.

Bible. His men. His crew. Fury. It was all he could think.

“We’re fine. We’re fine.” Bible repeated, a hand stroking over the back of his head. “You just lie still, okay? We’re fine. It’s all fine. Everything is fine. Don’t move, Don. Just don’t move.”

He couldn’t if he tried. It was impossible to put words to the amount of pain he was in.

“Somebody get a doctor!” Boyd shouted, voice ragged.

Someone was praying in Spanish.

Don was questioning the logic of his decision. He was no good to his men like this. But he hadn’t been able to even fathom the thought of leaving them behind without him. Without his leadership. More than anything he didn’t want to leave Boyd. And he was wondering why he wasn’t blacking out or hadn’t already. What kind of cruel, unimaginable joke was that?

“ _Fuck_.” he heard Boyd say, closer now, practically in his ear and a hand was still stroking over his head. He felt hot tears on his neck. “Fuck, Don. You stay with me. You stay with me.”

Don focused on the hand stroking his head, the hand holding onto his, and Boyd’s voice. He focused it on so hard and tried to block out everything else. It was impossible. But it helped. It was a comfort. Something he was unimaginably grateful for in this hell to top all levels of hell.

“I love you.” Boyd whispered in ear and there were even more footsteps, his hand bare now stroking over his neck. A lot of voices. A lot of talking. Too much for him to process but he tried.

“-no medics, not here. But there’s a regiment seven miles away with a supply detail. That’s your best bet-”

Captain Maddock, he recognized his voice, spoke up now. “Jesus Christ son of a bitch.”

“No sense in getting help, it would take too much time. Just take him now. In the tank-”

“I’ll go with.” Maddock said. “Let’s move. Move. Carefully for the love of all that’s holy-”

His wishes for blacking out were well received. The last thing he heard, from the private he saved, broken and miserable - ‘it should have been me’.

Don didn’t even get a chance to tell him that it shouldn’t have. That it shouldn’t have been _anyone_. By the time they lowered his smoking body into the Fury, by the time he felt the skin of back move around like hot, half melted butter when someone’s hand accidentally touched it, the cry he gave as a result and the sound of someone retching was all he heard before the pain dragged him under into complete darkness.

Don came in and out of consciousness in the seven miles that felt like an eternity between the town of Giborich, Germany and the supply detail stationed near it. He always came awake to the sound of his own agonized cries, groans, or moans of pain. And Boyd’s voice and hands were always there to soothe what he could. And when Don’s hands always reflexively found the man that was holding him as gingerly but as close as he could, his attempts to soothe his lover and commander only intensified. Don was sure his grip was enough to hurt and leave bruises, he couldn’t help it, but Bible never flinched. Never wavered. And no one questioned the gunner or tried to remove him from Don’s side. Don wouldn’t have let Bible go to even let that happen.

The last time he came awake just before they stopped and medical intervention came at last, it was to the sound of Bible praying. But when he noticed he was awake, he immediately stopped.

“Hey.” he soothed, “Shhh, Don. I’m right here. You’re okay. You’re okay-”

And Don hated the way his lover’s voice broke. His voice sounded raw and hoarse. From crying, praying, shouting, and talking. He hated that he was the source. And he hated how a small part of him wished he was dead. Because there was nothing but pain and he couldn’t even stop himself from the endless amount of tears, the sounds he was making, and the cries falling from his lips.

Occasionally Don’s primary thoughts seemed to come out of his mouth instead of cries, moans, or groans.

Bible. His men. His crew. Fury.

It was the only thing that assuaged a fraction of the shame. The knowing, as little awareness that he had, that he couldn’t hide his suffering from his lover and crew. He couldn’t be their commander, their strong example, their sense of security. He was nothing now or at least that’s how he felt. His only relief and comfort, besides the comforting hands of his lover and the sound of his voice, was that they were safe. Whole. And alive. For that he felt like he wasn’t a failure.

“You’re okay, Don. You hear me?” Boyd whispered, southern accent thickened with emotions, his hand never stopping - soothing strokes over the top of his head, the other hand firmly grasped in his. “You’re okay. Everything is okay. You just hold on now. You hold on. Hold on for me.”

Don forced his eyes opened, could barely see through tears. It was night, the red lights from the tank the only illumination in the cramped innards of the Fury. And Boyd’s face was right there, above him, expressive eyes filled with a heartbreaking amount of worry, concern, and fear. They were red and guiltily Don knew from crying but the second Boyd knew he could see him the worry, concern and fear also turned to something close to hope. And he managed a watery smile.

“Hey.” he soothed. “Hey. You’re okay, Don. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

There was a hand on his ankle and Don looked over in confusion at it. Red’s worried face greeted him, the oldest man in the tank besides Don, still his junior by ten years. And he looked scared. They all looked scared. Don wouldn’t have any of that.

“Hey.” Don forced out, sickened by the pain the effort caused him. Tears welled up fresh but he pushed on. “War still to fight. Remember that. I made a promise.” and tears of a different kind threatened to spill, an overwhelming tide of emotions right behind it.

Red’s expression dissolved into a bit of a smile, giving his ankle a squeeze and a few tears fell down Boyd’s face, Don looking back in time just to see a real smile on his face, his lover managing a bit of a laugh. But it was a sad one and it broke his heart. He was a real, damn mess. And they all knew it.

Don grasped a hold of Boyd’s hand with all the strength he had but he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore and he briefly felt another hand on his arm that wasn’t Red’s or Bible’s.

“Stop worrying about us and you just keep being the toughest son of a bitch we know.” Grady said, more emotion in his voice than Don had ever heard. And it faltered, the loader’s voice wavering. “We’ll do the rest, you hear?”

“You got it.” Don groaned, biting out the words, but he couldn’t help the cry of pain that followed.

“Shhh.” Boyd soothed, long and drawn out, and Don felt his lover’s forehead rest lightly against his, his hand brought up and held against Bible’s chest. “Hush now. Hold onto your strength. We’ll do the rest.”

Don could have cried right then and he wasn’t sure he stopped himself. He blamed the pain but he also blamed the overwhelming amount of pride and love he felt for his men just then. And although it was a far different shade for the man who was currently holding him in his arms, a deeper shade, it all struck him deep. He’d done good. Damn good.

And that was a shred of comfort that followed him into the dark, the whispered words of his lover cradling him in assurances that everything was okay and that they would do the rest.

 

~TBC~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'When you started crying, baby I did too. But when the sun came up I was looking at you.'

 

If Don had thought the pain was bad before, it was nothing compared to that of taking him back out of the tank. He wasn’t smoking anymore, not in the time it had taken to reach the supply detail, and thankfully it was dark. The pain was relentless, it didn’t quit, and it had sapped all the strength from his bones. He could barely hold onto Boyd as they moved him, or anyone for that matter, and no matter how gentle they were it was a commotion of chaos and rapidly given orders and immense suffering. Orders that weren’t his own. He wasn’t even consciously aware of much but pain, his crew, people, and being surrounded by unfamiliar faces.

At this point in the war, there were not many familiar faces left.

“Set him down easy!” Boyd snapped, “Not on his back!”

“Napalm did it.” Maddock said, “No one else to bring back but bodies-”

“Someone get a damn doctor!”

And there it was again. As he was rolled over onto his side, the distant sound of retching was heard and even over his own cries he heard multiple exclamations of shock and horror. He could only imagine what the back of him looked like. He couldn’t even consider it without getting unbearably nauseous himself. Thankfully he hadn’t eaten a thing in the past day and there wasn’t anything left to even bring up. He’d never thought he’d be thankful for a lack of supplies but he really was now.

“Just keep breathin’.” Boyd murmured in his ear, stroking a hand over the side of his head. “You just keep breathin’ for me. Everything’s going to be okay-”

And it felt like he was laying in his lap, from what he could work out anyway, face pressed against Bible’s hip, stomach in the grass.

“Somebody get this man something for the pain already-” Maddock said angrily.

And Don agreed. Anything. Anything at all to make it stop.

The medics hands were unbelievably careful as they got him onto a stretcher. There wasn’t a moment that anyone wasn’t talking. Either to him, to each other, or over each other. Don could barely make it all out but occasionally he heard his name. And then he was being lifted, he no longer had the warmth of Boyd’s lap for comfort, only cold - thick canvas. Reflexively, in a moment of panic he couldn’t stop, he grabbed a hold of his gunner far harder than he had before.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Boyd said immediately. “I’m right here with you, Don. I’m not going anywhere.”

It didn’t take long for there to be suddenly lights far brighter than anything he’d experienced lately, especially not in the dark innards of the tank, squinting against it. He could see Boyd more clearly now than before, the man’s pale, worried face drawn tight in concern, watching him with intent, heartbreaking worry and concern. “You’re okay.” he assured him, “I’m right here. We’re going to get you taken care of-”

“What’s his name, son?”

“Don.” Boyd said, blinking against the light himself. “Sergeant Don Collier. He’s the commander of the tank crew I’m in and with all due respect, sir, I’m not leaving him. Not for one instant.”

“Sergeant Collier?”

“Yes.” Don forced out, and fear welled up deep in his gut. He felt like he was being called up for the executioner, no matter how professionally calm the medical authority was that had spoken his name. The hard part wasn’t over. And he knew his hell had just began.

“We’re going to put you under so we can get you cleaned up and this uniform off. You don’t want us doing that while you’re awake.”

“Appreciate that, sir.” Don managed and Boyd’s expression turned into that of a heartbroken smile, tears in his eyes. He hadn’t released his hand for a second and Don’s eyes found his and focused on them, trying to breathe through the pain that was wrecking what felt like every fiber of his being. He didn’t know how he wasn’t dead from it.

“Well few people can even talk after being dosed with napalm, sergeant. You’re a tough man and we’re going to take good care of you.”

“That’s my, man.” Boyd murmured, giving his hand a firm squeeze. “I’ll be right here, Don. Right here when you wake up.”

Don’s eyes never left Boyd’s. Not when they put a mask over his face, not when his eyes filled with tears of their own accord at the pain and the smell of chemicals. Not when they moved the thick tubing out of the way and temporarily blocked his view from the man. Not when the world started to get dark around the edges and his lungs started to feel heavy. And Boyd’s hand never left his, not for a moment. The last thing he sensed, even after the world faded away and so did the voices. It was the last memory he had, the warmth and strength of his fingers, grasping onto his with silent assurances that they’d never let go.

 

The next few days stretched into a week and they were nothing but a morphine induced haze of drugs and agony.

Don always woke up screaming. Never gently, never awakening slowly. Always to the most unimaginable pain possible. And while he couldn’t grasp it just then he would later be told that those were the days of the chemical washes, bandage changes, and applications of medicated burn cream. And the rest of the day would be spent in a fuzzy stupor of drugs, dull constant pain, and exhaustion.

But Boyd was always there. He didn’t have the energy to question how he was and how the Army hadn’t taken him away but Boyd was always at his side. The first thing he saw when he woke up and the last thing he saw when the world either went dark, he fell asleep, or passed out from pain, exhaustion or both.

He talked to him constantly and sometimes when Don would wake, he wondered if he’d talked to him even when he wasn’t consciously aware because the man’s voice would be hoarse - like he’d been talking or shouting for days. And maybe he had.

Sometimes he woke to praying. Boyd prayed a lot, he remembered that much. Other times, in the worst of his pain, Boyd would sing quietly to him. His voice a low, soothing lilt to Don’s storm of unrelenting suffering.

There was rarely a time when his hand didn’t let go of Boyd’s. Whenever he woke up, and if the hand was gone it would swiftly return and Boyd would come into his line of sight, talking to him. Always. Sometimes he woke up to him praying or he swear he heard it just as the edge of his consciousness even if he couldn’t open his eyes. A few times he thought Bible was reading to him from a book.

The varying expressions on the man’s face were a constant. Exhaustion, fatigue, always concern and worry, unbearable amount of heartache, and love. Always love first and foremost. Once he’d woken up screaming and Boyd had actually looked terrified. He’d been crying, he looked more rattled than Don had ever seen him, and tears were running down his face. He didn’t want to wonder what had happened to cause it. He hadn’t even had the ability or strength to try. He assumed he was better off not knowing but the immense joy and relief Boyd had greeted him with once he’d realized he was awake had been nothing short of intense. Don grasped the sense that he’d just survived something else besides the napalm and maybe had too close of a call for the man to handle.

With the amount of medical personnel he always woke up screaming too he was wondering if he wasn’t running them all into the ground. He didn’t have the strength to feel guilty and ashamed yet. But it was there. Waiting until he was stronger.

And then, an indefinite amount of time later, he just woke up.

The pain was bad, it was constant, but he wasn’t screaming. His throat was raw and he was wondering if could speak or even try. And although he was barely aware of his surroundings Boyd was there. A steadfast presence he was sure was the only thing seeing him through.

“Hey.” Boyd whispered, smiling at Don and leaning down to catch his eyes, quickly setting the book that had been in his hands aside and reaching out to him.

He looked... decent. Cleanly shaved besides his mustache, clean all over, wearing a uniform that looked practically new. And while he looked a little pale, he didn’t exactly look exhausted. Tired but not exhausted.

“Hey, Don.” Boyd was whispering and the familiar presence of his warm hand in his was there. As it always had been. Another hand came up to stroke ever so gently along the side of his face and tears were forming in Bible’s eyes. But not of fear, terror, sorrow, or concern. Happiness. Hope. And love. “Hey.” he laughed softly.

Don was so tired he wasn’t even sure what words to form or how to even start. He was so caught up in the man’s eyes, in awe that he was really here, that he was almost certain he was dead and that this was just a dream. He missed that he was laying in a hospital bed in one of the most advanced medical facilities in England, in a massive room full of beds but that his was the only one occupied. He missed the massive windows lining one entire wall, letting in nothing but natural light. He missed that they were otherwise alone but if he’d picked up the sound of the heels from the nurses he would have known that they weren’t. But even so there was only one.

“Where-” he managed but the word actually hurt his throat.

Boyd immediately reached for a pitcher of water on the bedside table, voice soothing when he spoke. “Have to let go of your hand now.” he said as he eased his hand away, “I’ll explain in a minute. Just hang tight.”

He helped him drink and it was blissfully cool and tasted treated. An incredible difference from what they’d been drinking where they could find it. Stale water in old canteens, water treated where they could but not often. The luckiest they got was river water and even that sometimes tasted like mud, blood, and ran the risk of carrying bacteria. Don had always made them boil it first.

“Better?” Boyd asked and Don nodded but instantly regretted it, tears filling his eyes as a dizzying amount of pain momentarily returned in full force.

Boyd immediately stood, grasping his hand in his own and Don realized he was laying on his side. The same side where he’d had his last clear memory. Deep in the heart of the war in the mud, bodies, and gore in a medical tent with his lover by his side. A forbidden love affair that could easily get them hung. The surroundings now were so very different it was staggering. But so was the pain at the moment.

“Breathe, breathe.” Boyd coaxed firmly, rubbing a hand over his arm. “Breathe for me, Don. It’ll pass.”

It did and when it finally abated enough to make the world stop spinning Boyd was back again, sitting beside him, closer than before. Don realized he’d stood to hold him down. Probably for the better. And as much as he worried about how quick and easy of a reflex that had been, he was grateful for it.

“After we got you to that supply detail they got you right into an operating theater.”

“I remember that.” Don said, remembering not to nod.

Boyd nodded, “They put you right under. Had to cut your uniform off.” the man briefly shifted his eyes to the floor and pushed ahead. Don had a feeling those were all memories he didn’t want to share or recall. Don didn’t blame him. “You uh... you woke up in the middle of it all but they got you back under. You were too critical to be put on a train so they flew you out of the country. You never told me your father was a pretty well known army surgeon.”

“We never really had much of a relationship. I-” Don winced, recalling suddenly just how little he’d told Boyd about himself and his life before the war. They’d had such a life of their own in the midst of it all that there hadn’t really been thought to it. “Never had the brains to be the doctor he wanted me to be.”

“While I’ll argue that-” Boyd said, “-I have to admit the man really pulled you out of the fire.”

Literally.

Don took in as much of a breath as he dared. “Go on.”

“That supply detail? By the grace of God, Don... That was the ninety fifth evac hospital. Same one that patched us all up after Salenaro. Guess they got into Germany after all. Saved your life too. Had to give you more IV fluids and blood transfusions than anyone else would have had. Without that I don’t think you’d ever made it here. In West Sussex. Someone told me you had some family here.”

Don managed a nod this time that wasn’t so painful it didn’t cause him to black out.

“I think this was a church of some sort...”

Don felt the world slipping from him again. He was so tired.

“Cold.” he said, to no one in particular. And while he was cold, it was something he never really would have voiced out loud otherwise. The word, the want or need, seemed foreign on his tongue.

The bed shifted and he was ever so carefully moved. He heard Boyd call softly for a nurse and then there were more hands on him than just a single pair he recognized as his lover’s. He was eased into a warm embrace and the heartbeat beneath his ear and the rise and fall of steady breaths did well to lull him quickly into sleep. He never even connected the dots that it was Boyd holding him. That one of his arms was was holding him from the front while his back remained untouched. He’d be told later that without a lot of blankets to spare, Boyd had been using his own body heat for weeks to keep the cold at bay.

 

Weeks passed and soon the large hospital facility that had at one time been a church quickly filled up the rooms and soon they weren’t alone. Among the dying and injured more than ever before. Personnel ran short but Don was always relatively kept as far away from everyone else as possible. And eventually they gave him his own room. Apparently his napalm destroyed flesh was prone to every type of infection known to man and not even a cough in his general vicinity could be risked.

The baths were the worst. The hospital was the only one in the area with a ‘burn tub’ for napalm victims and Don could say without a shadow of a doubt that the baths themselves were actually far worse than the napalm. The first few times a great deal of skin had just come off and the pain from that had caused him to completely black out.

Boyd had broken away and thrown up in the corner.

They slept together every single night and Boyd frequently laid with him during the day. Anything to keep him warm.

Don wanted to feel guilty for the amount of blood transfusions and IV fluids keeping him alive. An amount many times that of a normal patient. But the doctors were nothing if not determined to keep him alive. They said Don was a miracle but he really didn’t feel like one. His only concern was Fury.

Boyd had said that a scary son of a bitch by the name of Pike had taken command of the remaining Fury crew. Don knew him and he knew that he was a good man. He was terrifying, no jokes, no levity, he demanded total obedience. He’d dress down a man and tear him to shreds if given a reason and demote him in rank back to private faster than one could blink. And he had the authority too. He didn’t allow any horse play, demanded expectations enough to break a man, but also knew how to keep a crew alive despite all odds. He was a brilliant tactician.

“When you suggested him-” Boyd said, late in an afternoon, the sun nearly setting. “No one thought you were serious. Thought you were in too much pain to know what you were doin’. But they agreed.”

“Only man I know that could keep Fury alive till I got back.” Don said against Bible’s chest, from where he frequently lay - off his back.

“Don...”

“I made a promise to those men. Same promise I made to you.”

Boyd had left it alone but he’d sensed that he wasn’t happy. It was easy to tell in the way his body went a bit rigid and the had on his arm ever so slightly tightened.

Personnel was so short that at some point, Boyd became a certified combat medic. He did the work of the nurses and soon had taken over most of Don’s daily routine. Assessing his vitals and writing them down on the clipboard for a doctor to inspect. He even helped change the bandages, dress the wounds, and apply medication. At some point Don even watched him give him a dose of morphine without supervision from a doctor or a nurse. Many days he fought to feel worthy.

Three times a day Boyd checked his pulse, his blood pressure, took his temperature two ways, asked him how much pain he was in from a scale of one to ten, listened to his heart and lungs with a stethoscope and gave him pain medication as needed and his antibiotic injections. The shortage of personnel got to the point that he was even switching out used up IVs and giving Don a new one when he was out. He frequently crawled into bed with him to ward out the cold from limited blankets and he was right there with him when he took his first steps on his own two feet since the napalm incident three months prior.

And he was right there when he made the decision to go back to the war.

“With all due respect, sergeant.” Doctor Fredricks, the man in charge of most of his primary care and with no doubt whom he owed his life - told him from the end of his bed. “While we admire your courage and perseverance and your incredible amount of fortitude there’s no way you can return to the war-”

“Every day more men are brought in here.” Don argued angrily. “I fought from day one of this fight and I’m not backing out. I got a group of men to take care of. I made a promise to keep them alive. I’m not keeping a bed held up any longer for someone who needs it more.”

“Don. Can I call you, Don?” Fredricks gave him a look over his thin wired glasses, the older man, thinner than most people he’d seen in the hospital even among the wounded, had to be nearly sixty years old but his voice was steady and he had a presence that few could debate. Especially a kindness. “You are healing. And you’re going to be okay. Matter of fact we’re probably going to transfer you back home. Those scars of yours will be prone to every infection imaginable. And you get one of those out there in the field and the pain will be immense. You could die.”

“If I kept them clean.” Boyd interrupted, “I can do it for him. Doc he’s going back with or without your say. Trust me. Just show me what to do.”

“Doctor I need to get back to my men.” Don said, meeting his eyes intently.

And Boyd was there by his side the day they were shipped back into hell instead of home. Don would never admit that many of his fears had been being separated from Bible. War relationships, secret and forbidden among men, never lasted. They couldn’t. It was believed men should go off and have wives, even if by chance they’d found more than a relationship or a fling but a soul mate instead. They should marry, have children, and forget about the war. But Don didn’t want to forget about Bible.

He knew he’d have too someday but it didn’t feel like that was going to happen to them. Not yet. He just hadn’t been ready.

Boyd told him later on a quiet ride in the back of a military transport between just the two of them that they’d only let Boyd stay by his side because most people didn’t survive napalm. Whatever chances more Don had to survive, even if his chances had only been increased a fraction by Boyd’s presence, they’d allowed it. A doctor, somewhere, had fought for it. They’d wanted to make him one of the few napalm survivors instead of the endless lists of casualties. He also knew military politics. Don was a higher ranking, seasoned tank commander. He’d been viewed as worth the expense and the amount of supplies needed to save his life.

It was the way of it. The cold truth.

When he opened the back canvas of the jeep, the first sight he saw was Fury.

And immediately something within him felt like it had shifted back into place. It was home. And even in the middle of hell, even to be taken back into the guts and blood and bodies, he still felt like he’d just come home.

Before they were noticed, both he and Boyd did a head count and Boyd relaxed with another smile.

“Gordo, Grady, and Red. All accounted for.” Don murmured with a smile of his own.

Boyd grinned, jumping down out of the Jeep, and Don quietly accepted Bible’s help to the ground.

“Easy, easy.” Boyd said but no matter how easy they made it, the last step was painfully jarring and he felt the air in his lungs leave him in a rush. Flecks of black sparked at his vision but if anything now he had walked away from napalm with a pain threshold unrivaled by anyone else probably in existence. He didn’t even falter, didn’t waver.

It was nothing like those days he had woken up screaming. Without a doubt, purely in part, to the man standing now by his side.

 

TBC


End file.
